The graduating class of 2001 assembled in front of the Pine Cottage, each wearing hooded black gowns and mortarboards. Despite a light rain earlier, the sky had cleared, providing a warm, sunny morning, perfect for the commencement held at the outdoor amphitheater.

My heart skipped a beat as the procession started. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. I had come so far and experienced so much to get to where I was that day, 7000 miles from home, graduating from college at almost 53 years of age. I could hardly believe it and yet, here I was. Or rather we, because I had never quite been alone on this long journey. Exhaling slowly, I stepped forward.

As the procession moved down the stone steps of the hillside path—solemnly and quietly—the other graduates must have also looked back on their years at the university, the classes they had taken, the late nights spent cramming for tests or writing reports. They must have remembered the good friendships made, the daisy chain and other campus traditions they participated in, the encouragement family and faculty members had given them . . . They must have also felt a sense of accomplishment as they wended their way down the path. I, personally, could barely contain the profound emotions in my breast and tried my best to walk with light, but dignified and confident steps toward the amphitheater.

Coming down the path, we passed through a small woods, the warm May sunlight filtering through new leaves. Music was being played in the distance. The closer we came, the more invigorated, but also restless we grew. The road bent gently to the right and rose slightly. Only then did I realize that the music I had heard was a trumpet playing the “Prince of Denmark’s March”.[1] It grew louder as we emerged from the woods.

As the procession reached the amphitheater, the audience, filled with friends and family, welcoming us with warm smiles, came into view. The tug of emotions brought tears to some of the graduating students’ eyes, including mine.

Mrs. Paula Wallace, who was then Dean of Students, and known by everyone as Dean Wallace, presided over the graduation as marshal. Following her directions, we took our seats. All of the graduating students had an attendant—a parent or friend—sitting directly behind them. As no one from my family in Japan could attend, I asked Kazuko, a friend of mine who had graduated the previous year, to be my squire.

The faculty arrived next, and following the marshal’s direction, settled in their seats beside the stage. Finally, everyone sat down.

The trumpet playing stopped and the ceremony began. First, Ms. Bowman, the president of Randolph-Macon Woman’s College, gave a speech. This was followed by the commencement address of the main guest speaker. There were several rites, such as the conferring of degrees, the presentation of awards, as well as messages from the graduating class. The school song was also performed.

And with that, the trumpet began to play the anthem again and the squires placed a stole-like strip of white fabric over the graduating students’ gowns. The marshal then called each graduating student by name. The student stood, went up to the stage where she was presented with a diploma by the president, who then shook hands with the student. The new graduate returned to her seat and sat down.

After the marshal, Dean Wallace, made some closing remarks, the trumpeter played the anthem once more, and the faculty withdrew from the stage. The students who had been presented with their bachelor degrees followed afterwards and left the amphitheater.

As that calm procession took us back up the hill to the starting place, I felt a great sense of fulfillment and relief. Although it was difficult to talk with the music playing, Kazuko whispered her congratulations into my ear.

[1] Also known as the “Trumpet Voluntary”, “Prince of Denmark’s March” was written around 1700 by the English baroque composer Jeremiah Clarke (1674-1707). The march is said to have been written in honor of Prince George of Denmark, husband of Queen Anne of Great Britain.

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